


The Sentencing

by Dale Pike (yesiamTHATdalepike)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hubris, Justice, Nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-28 05:46:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10074935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yesiamTHATdalepike/pseuds/Dale%20Pike
Summary: Dale Pike gets what's been coming to her.And apologizes in the only way she knows how.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Rated "Mature" because "Immature" isn't an option.
> 
> To the stenographer and the sketch-artist: I like your stuff on tumblr. So I had to.
> 
> (Somebody please STOP me, I'm out of control...)

“...and you will never again have to make the choice between answering or ignoring his phone call.”

The room is silent, emotion in many faces; including John’s, including Bealy’s and almost excluding Sherlock’s... _almost_ , but not quite.

“Your brother is dead,” Sherlock murmurs, as if to himself. Then his voice returns to normal level as he and Bealy look at each other. “And so is mine.”

Sherlock leaves the courtroom.

Bealy is lead out through the other door and some of the crowd disperses.

The judge looks at the clock. It’s three pm. Most judges give up at three. But there’s only one more case in the docket... they may as well power through. He motions for the bailiff to call in the next defendant, as he opens the folder and skims through the file. The text swims before him as if seeing double; he has trouble reading the names. He removes and cleans his glasses and rubs his eyes. It’s been a long day.

The defendant appears in the corner of his eye to his left and takes her place in the box, her head bowed and her hands folded in front of her. Her fingers are hidden in some brightly coloured fabric. “Well, Mrs—“ He squints again at the paper and turns to squint at her. “Hmm. You’re more of a _tanned_ complexion, wouldn’t you say?”

She risks a furtive glance up at him with a quizzical expression.

He puts his glasses back on. “Oh. _Dale..._ Quite right. Well, Ms Pike...” He shuffles the papers. “You’re up on a number of charges, my dear. What shall we deal with first?”

To the right, the plaintiffs are being led to their seats; three women. Two sit close together as a pair; the other crosses her legs and barely breaks her gaze from her mobile phone.

The stenographer in front of them prepares to type. The sketch-artist’s black pen is poised over white paper.

Pike raises her hands and roles up her long sleeves, revealing that each arm is encased to the elbow in a garish sock-puppet with make-shift felt tongues and googly-eye decorations. They look as if they had been made by a foolish child. Some of the audience laugh, then begin to murmur to each other. Pike looks miserable. The pair of women give her a withering look and her chin sinks lower. “Should I,” she says, itching at the cuffs, “take them off now?”

The stenographer clacks away.

The judge winces. “Yes, I should say so!” As she peels them off and deposits them in the bin next to her box, he adds, “Whatever made you think that was a good idea?”

The defendant turns red to the tips of her ears. She purses her lips as she listens to the clerk introduce Ms I and Ms L to read their statements and rubs her hands compulsively _out damned spot..._

But as the two women stand, the one turns to the other and says, “Let’s go. This is pointless.” She indicates the entire courtroom in the sweep of a hand. “She’s just going to use it as an opportunity to be a smart-arse anyway...”

Pike grabs the edge of the box and interjects, “Wait. I can explain...”

With a throat-clearing noise, the judge holds up a hand. “I can’t allow this to continue unless Ms I and Ms L are willing to let you talk.”

“Can anybody really _stop_ her?” Ms I smirks, as the two departing victims continue towards the door, unmoved, and the crowd chuckles appreciatively. But then they pause, turning back for a moment. “Let her _listen,_ though.” Ms. L takes the note from her purse and passes it to the clerk with a nod that indicates _You read it._

The note is read, describing Ms Pike’s acts of immature parody, along with the personal victim experience of anger and anxiety provoked by the creepy misuse. The crowd goes silent, considering how it might feel to have someone assume a recognizable identity then make said identity behave ridiculously like some Punch-and-Judy show.

Pike grips the edge of the box and opens her mouth again, when the wood breaks with a sudden snapping sound and the four panels fall down, revealing her legs.

I and L roll their eyes. _You’ve GOT to be kidding._

But it is kind of heart-healingly funny to watch Pike scramble, flustered... patting herself and looking down as if to reassure herself that she’s not naked. She is clothed and shod, however, with the exception of her right foot: it’s heavily bandaged.

“Whew,” Dale mutters sheepishly. “This is just like a nightmare I used to have in highschool. Only I wasn’t wearing any pants.” The crowd titters. “Trousers,” she corrects herself. “I mean _trousers.”_

The judge taps the file. “Do you have anything productive to say?”

“Very little, Your Honour,” Pike admits, shame-faced. “Only this... I truly am sorry. I made the characters up to troll _my_ own self and have a lark. I really did think that if the real people ever came across them, they would just find it funny. Maybe even flattering, in an _Hey-look-I’m-SO-famous-people-are-parodying-me_ kind of way. I know that sounds ridiculous now, but it’s the truth.” At I and L’s skeptical looks, she hurriedly continues; “I’m not saying this as a defense or any kind of reasonable excuse. I’m just saying it in explanation, so the victims are hopefully less creeped out by it. I didn’t actually _know_ much about the history of TJLC-abuse stuff until now, and how that experience would made this buffoonery seem even worse. My involvement with this series has been pretty solitary until recently. I’ve never really been waist-deep in Twitter or Tumblr; I just dip a toe in every now and then.”

Ms. I tilts her head in the direction of Dale’s bandage. “Oh, is that how you got _that_?”

Ms. L chuckles. “ _’Shot self in the foot with Chekhov’s gun?’_ ”

Pike nods, wincing. “Really. Truly. It looks like I’ve had a _long game_ here—which is true in some ways, I guess—but not with respect to you.” She rubs the back of her neck and her hand comes away clammy. “That was just a recent mistake that I made and I didn’t think much of it until some clever fans pointed it out to me.”

The crowd in the gallery grumbles their disapproval. _Shame._

Pike glances up, narrowing her eyes. “Oy. Some of _you lot_ thought it was cool and encouraged it when you were certain I was Somebody _Important_.” She swirls her finger around briefly at them. _Shame._

Then she returns her gaze to the two victims and spreads her hands. “Look; this DOESN’T excuse what I’ve done at all, but I’m just saying: I have a really _bent_ sense of humour. There’s a _reason_ that I heavily identify with a show about a sociopathic social-outcast. But I actually think you’re very smart. I made your “sock-puppets” over-the-top ridiculous, so as to suggest that the _opposite_ was true... that this couldn’t possibly be real. I’ve gotten so used to imitating Mofftiss’s style—“

The judge squints. “Who?!”

Dale pauses and tips her head at the judge while eyeing the victims. “See? _That_ DOES happen.”

The judge rubs his eyes tiredly. “Alright. Well, Ms—“

“I really do need to apologize,” she repeats, trying to take a step forward and tripping on the fourth panel lying at her feet. “You don’t need to accept it, but please know that I didn’t mean you any harm—“

“Ms—“

“—and I appreciate the lesson from this and I promise I will never employ such an idiotic device again—“

“Ms Dyke!”

“Pike.”

“ _Pike,”_ the judge moans, in correction. “Will you please JUST SHUT IT for one moment?!”

“Yessir,” she bows her head.

The frenzied stenographer stalls.

The judge turns to the bailiff and mutters, “I’m starting to think we should send her to Winterfield instead. She’s completely off her nut.”

The bailiff nods. “There’s no room in Sherrinford anyway.”

“Well, occasionally a cell opens up, but we can never predict when _that’s_ going to happen.”

“True.”

Ms. L whispers something to Ms. I and they both nod. Ms. I addresses the judge. “Your Honour... we’re all reasonable people here. This individual is twisted and pathetic, but not likely a danger to anyone. How about simply a restraining order? Dale Pike must stay 500 yards away from the Heart of the Conspiracy and refrain from using puppets of any kind, ellipses, semi-colons...

“...and Fourth-Wall breaks,” Ms L adds, tilting her head at the broken defendant’s box. “Seriously. Everyone is _sick_ of the fucky, Pike.”

Dale nods gravely. “Can I still go to the rally?”

The judge taps his pen on the desk. “Only if you wear a paper bag on your head and refrain from talking to anyone directly; you are an abject, flailing, noxious mess." 

The stenographer wipes a tear. “I love happy endings!”

“Well aren’t _you_ a Mr Brightside,” replies the sketch artist. “I hate to point this out, but if Ms Pike _actually_ thinks highly of the plaintiffs’ writing, then what’s with the description of the transmitter in _The Players_? The broken umbrella and round saw and broken Speak’n’Spell? Isn’t that kind of an insulting symbol for our Archive?”

“Pssh,” the stenographer interjects. She looks at Pike, chucking a thumb at the artist. “Don’t listen to that one. Worries _constantly._ Look. It’s obvious that the transmitter is a metaphor for the ingenuity required for ordinary people to create a grass-roots movement to share information and broadcast it to the world.”

Pike quadruple blinks. “Uh... _ye-ah_...”

Ms I looks at Ms L. “I thought it was the transmitter from E.T.”

“Me too, I love that movie.”

Dale nods. “Yeah, it was E.T.” She nods at Brightside. “But that other stuff sounded really great too...”

The judge bangs the gavel. “Alright, that’s enough.” Shuffles the papers. “We can now move onto the other charges. Let’s see... theft... forgery... blackmail... Ms V, this affected your studio, do you have anything to say?”

The seated third woman looks up briefly from her phone, before her eyes are almost immediately, magnetically drawn back down to it. “Hmm?”

Ms I smirks and leans in next to her friend. “The studio should send Pike a fruit basket. Her script is actually going to make their next one look _good_.”

“Restore them as Golden Gods,” Ms L mutters.

The judge clears his throat. “Ms V?

She blinks. “Sorry... I’m just so... caught up trying to locate @contact_JM's picture...” She looks up again. “What were you asking me?”

“Do you have anything you’d like to say to Dale Pike?”

"Who?" Ms V turns back to the phone. “Never heard of her.”

...

**Author's Note:**

> (...no, that's it. I'm done with parody.)


End file.
